ReCapture
by Nekomaru
Summary: This is the second sequel of Capture but some of the sections are not complete. Just to show you that I'm still here 9.9 I'll post these until I'm able to finish them. 6.6 Go ahead. Look. .
1. Chap 2 Part 1: The ReAwakening

I fear it to come. This galloped heart fervent with rushing blood. It tattered my brain as it rung, spun, and escalated every known sense that could witness it. To turn right, my neck would jerk three times left. To look up, my eyes would linger unfocused and glassy. Every breath was a gasp and each gasp was suffocation. What was only to blame other than the pounding moon? It vibrates from these lingered eyes, advanced from this suffocation, and coward from this riveting drum of a heart.

Affliction; screeching, stinging, burning, and ever so prolonged drew down arches in my nails. I spoke unto the heaven for mercy to pull me from this allure. What a response I was given for cold, chilled screams without voice bellowed into my bare ears. Twisted knots crippled up the center of my neck. When I say the chill lapsed over scorching blood, one would and should suppose fever was in its wake. It clicks, it ticks, it repeats, "Where" in my mind. To void its plea would anger the unseen. It will become urgent and overpowering with a throated no voice. It screams to me hither yet pleas "Where is she?" I ponder "here" and there it continues, "Where are you. Where is she? I need her." To whom was a voice unsounded want so desperately that it would jerk an unwilled limb? Soon, the echo elapsed with it and upon a tone, a guttural surface. "Where is she?!" I beckon to it in fear, "Gone!"


	2. Chap 2 Part 2: And then there was life

To intact and take what is nothing but a chortled left over esophagus is a steeple challenge of every day matter. What calls itself the haunting and yet can not be screamed upon as neither incoherent nor with the wildly world of "nevers." Fevers of adrenaline have reached its peek and seek to destroy every part of me like it was a disease to the health. She can not control me. There will be one and it is of the weakest. The weakest is what make the weaker strong and those stronger meek and feeble. It just as contradictory can deliver as hardship to one's life like it too was poison to an already stirred of disrupt society. Nay is it to hold back meager indulgence of incognito. Later will one's side rain of things unimportant when sight of the blind makes sense to the death of the living. He calls every after from behind so that it is the cognito which I sought to discover without eyes but ears. To hear a voice neither deep nor high, neither low nor fly above the wind's screech is sentimental. His words are not burden, they are trouble with delight. I will consume this delight with hate and love while both separate and deprive what is left of prejudice intellects. Likewise, people's love of lust will devour their righteous sights until it is the heart which would make sense without eyes and do as most people fret to ignite.

Incognito, which a word I would use just before the throat is spliced from every back and hither upon this man, lingered lonely eyes of glue almost stick and alert to attach on impact. His worn away seethe was no more of serene red but a muck of purple on tanned dough. Where is he to go on such occasions with a scar undefined for honor but honored for the indefinite of loyalty and courage? He is my will's ignition and it is this ignition of will which will kill with just a shun of benevolence. Will I smile in miles of haven but still love with all heart's pounce? Nay; it is among a solid cold which will thrive on the miniature spectacle of manifestation. Linger, I will, and slither without scales the tongue which not screams "bloody" in murder. It tickles a soul I know is upon stun. He will be prey. He will be meat. But it is him not to eat of skin but of mind. That, this thing that is split by monitored yet unlooked surveillances, brain so-called the process to make sense the involuntary movements upon mine lips and breath. I suck not life but death and still breathe.

Scratch deep with elongated nails that can only dig through a baby's skin and nay leave a split in meat and soft orange. If "could" was a possible, these lungs would stretch with tremble of vertical declination while many inhalation is at fault. It will dirge and speak under bones once malicious actions take form. "Could would be the possibility of goal," and at this his lips sank under a dragged chin, "And then there was disability. Lay down your arrows." And upon these arrows, Argentine's greatest creation did not shine under the moonlight's chin. It flustered many times above and below these gnawing feet. Such a good man he could be but not alive. Yes, it was the call many crows would gossip.

No, it was not of laughter but in cry. Why is it in cry? Tears shed heat and heat is life. Life and heat should deflate to death and cold. Cold streams like brooks should flow. If not he, then I will make it be by self of me. Nay question in one ear but infliction of cry not of tears but now drool. This was cold but not of dead. This man is patient but I am the contradiction.

Rise my hand, my claw that scratches only these lungs to breathe, so that his, "Caolone", they call him, lungs was anything but flatted with mines. Purple's death is life. Say that it was him who looked this hue.

Next aligned with this man, more were unaware but many were already dead. I would make check of this goal. But in the centre like lines on a crimpled hand of an elder Albrecht lays a man of collaborated stature. Why leave him be when it is they who tremble under his will with gutturals while he refrains a monster I and no others know no more? We are the last. Staggered from his thought of death and thundered on breath because his heart has beat mines, Okiba Tsukikami shut the curtains of sight and let I be him and him to I. We, in some celestial state of sanity and nay calamity shot stills of life in motion of no motive and no sounds. They were mute among each heart tremble which veins curve and rung like plucked strings that play harmonious cries while these or those eyes nay lay sight of many objects for there were shifts of thousands. Claw upon view made one man be fifty. This view was useless. Fang, a synonym of Tsukikami, shall halt being so.

"Prey the men like the meat Ryoho has given you over three moons," This goad hadn't done well to his restraint but many more layered his gurgle, "I hate your coward of apathy. Show them you're the last and first since the three moons"

"It is not the key," he frets aloud as the claw smear of men continued, in influence of question with his quote, to cast the silver-holed snakes around every vexed limb. "Call off this sight and narrow back in the land of recluse. I will not molt to my past."

"You will do so in reprisal of men. We are the last!" My thoughts, though only silenced to opened ears, seethed to hear of Fang. He coughed and not choked for the beast had heard, though within him, as an asymmetrical no form. His heart was two in force. It was trying to break free. Instincts said it so. Drool, the cold and death but death not be it, stringed from his ensiforms yet those ensiforms began to dull back into its gnawing incisor like that of a human. He shouldn't fight back! Be as me, this silk to milk's shine when fresh and latex upon flesh when attached. He is it and visa. Why hide under false skin?

"We" I spoke to words so that even a smudge of black-inked heart within a holy one could heed, "are the last! Place not one breath on either man that is here to kill you unless it is to bring forth a scent of their blood." Blood was a word that thundered five hearts within him. It tattered in speed but in velocity the veins fervent under his skin shook new born with dark spruces.

His arms were of plucked strings vibrating with disturbance and strength like that of quick death on electricity. It was being he, him no more a man and now his past. Red eyes shine no more under a milky simmer of gold like a head light of metal horses with round legs. My sight in his said no more was mercy a degree in sanity but unapproved hunger. I crack one goad of action to hither a beast nay tamed. "We are the last."

Many a man though eyes linger upon me than him galloped their heads towards the heavens of mercy while I lie contorted with those heavens and descend such as that of all fallen angels. Ring, bells, ring! Show all men and quake with Thor's hammer that stricken all darkness. It cries with tears that are warm, this pale dough, and grow cold after every swagger and disembodiment. Sinking deeper under earth while the moon's glazing eye peeked upon him and I, he unlike those who wither with Argentine's angel-cry of droplets massage the blood dirt with threads of cold fire. Thor angled proud glory with his thundered laughter.

Nay did blood bathe upon him had velvet fur that consumed him swallowed it. His voice was of engine but of no metal was he. This dirt, which splayed of height then declination, had forgotten the path of gravity for no movement was about when aim of a stricken arm floated like a horizon.

One blink, one shine of massacre's light and I was nay to lose sight of it afford the threads of my hair, was enough for an entire movie. Had he too much anger to know his allies? Thuds upon thuds upon clawed smears of thuds bound the earth as I had come to sight of Fang. His mass blanketed a third of the moon's radiance, his glow of dull pupils were lowered but raised under brows that did not exist and a doubled swaggered stiff behind his calves. Fang was the shadow of Bakyuryu the Mole.

His potency was insurmountable upon mine. While three would fall lifeless upon their knees through my anger, a thousand-fold would do just the same within his. Careless thoughts have misinterpreted and thus I was rewarded from his rage. One clawed-foot bound the ground. No more was his vision an abrasion-smear and yet it was. Behind me, around me, before me, nay was there focus upon it but I. No matter if these grazing feet made haste to the wilderness, I would shine blissfully like that of the moon before him.

"I am the last," squeaked I in a breath mush lost than gained, "Lay down Thor's hand and howl many mercies. I am not who you seek." These words, if were strong as before, could have halted his pace and yet it made no difference. My back crumpled against the Tylon wall while these fingers were as cold as purple; as tears; as drool and blood against the air; and as death. Disheveled, we were neutral upon touch.

Fang, baring all that was arctic even without death be him, catered me a life stolen through void. A blaze of Thor's partaken jolt heaved through the mist but was he a coward to commit the lifeless when he halts midst a melody? Yes, it was a call such as that of the wind howling in a conk shell. My mind could not make shift the road of notes but, surely, Fang could make out every breeze.

In one trotted retreat, both he and the cold fire subsided. And along with it surfaced the escape of the beast high into the heavens the Armark men failed to flow. My eyes folded to percept in the eyes of the mercy. Blindness was all that I could see.

Too tainted in blood not seen, sin nonexistent, and scar nay bleed, darkness weigh my surprise. Where was this alibi now? His form was that of the shadow of Kenji Ohgami but his essence said otherwise. He could not scratch and erase death from the fist of regret. Somewhere he wanted to break free the curséd existence in which is him. The human that withers before me was his mask and the beast was the man behind it. Surely, the ordinary was not part of this fate.

"I need to find it…" said an instinct. Or was it this? Nay the voice was my own. Nay the voice was monstrous.

"He's back," hissed I in tranquility among the bath and suds of the fallen, "But how long will he remain?"

* * *

I have played upon myself the iniquities of danger. Had it not been for Uriko's arrival, I would have broken the Way of the Yatagarasu. Where comes the entity that sometimes the most known to be of the people is no more than what they are themselves. To suppress in many layers and cloak to scavenge for the food, one must look as though to be food. I have attained my time as the crust of all the two-legged apes but soon the skin became the self and the self was diluted from the skin. It was no more the beast that impended for provisions through a forged stature; it was now a love almost forgotten, almost driven if not for the optimism that was still there to hunger. What more of starvation was it than that of the zeal? The hunger for the flesh was no more. It was nonexistent to the belly of the beast. The animal, itself, was no longer subsistence and thus, it was no more to be fraught.

Through three moons, there was suffer and tribulations but that kept the beast at bay. If it weren't for her melody during the fifth moon of the gibbous, Uriko would have been another burden to a flout mind. Her blood and silk skin that "could" have seamed the lips of the barguest "would" have revitalized thus. There would be nom ore of this Fang. There would be no more of the synchronization. This succulent candy of sickened chocolate scuffed these incisors for the name "Jenny" was what ordained me from the fell of another's moderate blood. She gave me the Way of the Yatagarasu, the way to be human among the reality of the wolf.

Now that I trounce in the midst of the air with a wane that notified angst and a cringe for the worst to come as the best of this time, this black-furred net of claws hugged upon the heart which beat not the individual. I was craved upon its appetite. One knee met the blades of the grass. It was no more to gnaw upon the vexation of a tempted intellect. He had to go. One arm seethed this chest, one kneel frayed the blooded dirt, and one heart bounded for discharge from the lungs, the shield that reads, "Have not the heart of the beast for the Yatagarasu giveth thee nay many mercies." To abide was vindictive of the ridicule as to forbid was audacious in a killer's set. He needed to be excavated.

"Zoanthropy," I debased myself upon the bare tan of a human knee within only the dilapidated scraps of the denim jeans, "If you are to go back, you will _perish_." I knew such a word would not goad the hunger in alteration so I spoke in a forlorn that not even the black ink of a holy man could condemn, "There will be more of this existence. She will oppress just as she has done to Kenji. Now discharge your hold!" Temptation was what settled both knees and drools of sweat to the muck of the dirt but it was this that disaffiliated all sense of the eradication. It was to my choosing that this would be the night among no moon in this swathed sky that liberty was given on a silver steak. This proffer could not have been reached sufficiently.

"_Hither my words, moon of the abyss: This soul will not let from this body unless you slay the life of your own. This, my shell, is when I say 'Give up!_" But how was I to do so in the condition that such subsistence within me would gainsay? The thundered heart convulsed in a morose chest like a Black Widow grating its fangs upon the soft of a marshmallow skin slivering at the vivacity. How much more was this mask to bear before the armor, itself, was to be disentangled by the protuberance of velvet fur emerging obdurately through fretted pours? He was deriding me.


	3. Part 3: If Only There Was Forgiveness

Where are you? Taunting me behind every shadow and smudging with every light but what else shines blue than you? You are the only eerie, luculent glow that calls me yours. Any woman who beckons a name nameless and called speechlessly is only you. To where are you now other than before and after the horizon? It can't be. Behind me! If a sword could be so long, you will be impinged hither to there. But I could only impinge with these eyes. And with them, the glower could only shine sun's hue and nay yours. Sorry for your inconvience lady of the night. Your expectation must have been dug through hell from which you came and gone. Now there will be a sarcastic guffaw at your falter. But laughter of victory was far from this sound I uttered. It was restraining while an expanding feeling crippled down my spine and shivered these ribs.

"You…" I could only tell it this before the words smothered to gutturals. Where strain became pain and thus to rushing of the knees but into the wall that slackened my fall, the teeth that were known to be in the mouth of a human was now within a canine's.

And the sting kept getting bigger, tracking where the mind cracks with stacks and layers budding from one string of hair against the other. The other buds from another until another sprung like waves upon every hairless skin. It was a call goading for its procedure. It could be heed by me and to me the lisp of words barely understood by other human ears was subliminal. She couldn't let me go. Not yet. There was much to her plan that I have failed to compress.

Lest my timing with knobbed knees and heels that were once solidly on the ground, the knobs were bulk and the heels were inclined but supported by the cushion of the hind paws. Everyone knew that a man wasn't supposed to have paws. It is a vocabulary only four-legged mammals are sufficient to have but I was it. And as time resist to hand me mercy without a halt, the last of what was human to me had…

* * *

He was gone. It was sheer pity to cry his name through noise unkemptly heard by birds and bears. If he had a last thought, just one word to finish the sentence, his bestial edifice would not let it so. My feet lingered upon either side with leaves only to be the coat of my warmth. But it was useless. Where could a tender body compose heat when all of it was exposed through uncovered skin? And how many parts were in this bare stature? All. All remembrance of a stern bone structure was, with a tremble after every breath, none. None of the things that were to be everything were not anything but nothing. Nothing was for me. It was an empty pool filled with transparent invisibility. But it wasn't all that was exposed. Three cloths blanketed my chest, thighs, and hair. Each piece was no more than a Greek's famous attire yet under it, one would already ponder.

"Canst the heat of hell crack through the barrier of your voice, my frozen singer," my lips wobbled for these words, "Can you NOT cast mercy to a man without a sinful heart? You…have…no…**compassion**." And thus the wind blew harder. I had spoken my last words after it had been committed and added on before cradling to the heat of my breath, "And neither a speech meant for a true listener."

To be with the dreamed home was difficult. I was restricted of movement. There was a pull that cringed me from the hopes of the home-singing angels; just by the ankle was there another form that was the cause of my immobility. Instinct said it was danger.

"Hello, little one," it snided. The instincts were right and there wasn't much time for it to gloat when this form tensed and lifted me into the thicket of the roof. This was where the zoanthrope of me became of use.


End file.
